


Missing in Action

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:04:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Post *Ascension*. Skinner visits a desolate Mulder.





	Missing in Action

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Missing In Action by Gloria Lancaster

Missing In Action  
by Gloria Lancaster

* * *

Part of him watched the play of light across the room, the way the dust motes floated, the slight shimmer of warm air rising above the live computer terminal. Part of him listened to the hum of the computer, the steady throb of the refrigerator, the utter silence that swallowed up the distant sounds of traffic. There was nothing else; the phone didn't ring. Why should it? There would be no news, he sensed it, intuitively; he would not call the connection between them telepathy, but that there was a connection was irrefutable. He knew when she was in pain, when she was afraid. All he sensed now was nothing. 

They'd done it to him again, the bastards. They'd taken someone he loved. First Samantha and now Dana. Bright, shining Dana, with that cool enquiring mind, that wise and innocent sceptic; the only one he trusted and they had taken her away as well. 

A small, vicious part of him was very glad that Duane Barry was dead. He was still tormented by the thought that somehow, in some way, Duane had maybe hurt her. Slapped her around, beaten her, to keep her quiet. That thought was - unbearable. It was all unbearable. 

He closed his eyes, even looking at the dust motes was too much trouble. 

A knock at the door. He ignored it. Again. He still ignored it, having no interest whatsoever in who was outside. There was a small, slick little sound and Mulder froze, hand reaching automatically for his gun, inside the holster he was still wearing. The door swung open to reveal a figure in silhouette, a man, tall, broad. Mulder pointed the gun right at the head, his hand was remarkably steady. 

"This is not quite the way to ask for a raise, Agent Mulder," said a calm, even voice. 

Mulder lowered the gun and turned away, staring into the now darkened room again. A cold steady trickle of sweat seemed to be making its way down his spine: the only reason he could think of for Skinner to come here was with bad news. Very bad news. 

"You didn't show up for work today, Agent Mulder," Skinner said and came in, closing the door behind him. He walked forward, taking in the dark shrouded room, the blue glare of the resting computer screen providing fitful illumination. Mulder didn't move or speak. At last Skinner turned and looked down at the other man, slouched on the sofa. "Are you ill?" he asked with no obvious interest. 

Mulder managed to shake his head; why did this have to happen? Why Skinner? Why now? "No," said, through bone dry lips, "no, I'm not ill."

"Where did you go?"

"Back to Skyland Mountain," Mulder said wearily, reaching up to rub at the tension in the back of his neck. It had been a long drive back, with nothing but tangled thoughts for company. 

"Why?" in that patient, enquiring tone, that distant unconcerned voice, the voice of an interrogator. 

"To make sure... to see... to look for her."

"Did you find her?"

"No," that almost provoked anger but it faded; he was so tired, why wouldn't Skinner just leave him alone? "I'll be back at work tomorrow, I'm sorry." Even to his own ears, he sounded defeated. 

"I'm glad to hear it, Agent Mulder. The X files have been re-opened you know, there's work to be done."

Mulder shook his head. There was always work to do. What difference did it make? There was a muffled sound and Mulder watched in some amazement as Assistant Director Skinner sat down on the coffee table, right square in front of him, leaning forward, elbows on knees. 

"You," Skinner stated, some irritation starting to show now, "look terrible."

Mulder looked his amusement at that; "I feel terrible, sir." Why that should matter to Skinner was incomprehensible. "Sorry, sir," he said, with something like his own old manner, "I'll be cleaned up in time for duty." 

Sinner ignored this; "Have you eaten anything today?" Mulder shook his head, bemused. "Have you been drinking? Or taken anything?" Again, no. "You know, sometimes I think you agents are more trouble than a house full of children would be," and Skinner stood up, towering over the other man. It was an intimidating trick, particularly as Skinner didn't seem to realise how powerful it could be. Mulder had noticed it before; that unconscious arrogance, the simple physical presence of someone strong and unaware of his strength. 

Mulder watched in stunned bafflement as Skinner shrugged out of his raincoat and tossed it aside onto a chair. "Where's the..., ah, through here, right?" and he was gone. Mulder listened to him moving around in the kitchen, a few muffled swear words and one or two slams as cupboards were opened and closed. 

Skinner came back and held out a cup. "Drink it." This was the voice of his superior officer, the voice of someone who expected to be obeyed. 

Mulder took the cup automatically then sniffed, pulling a disgusted face. "What is it?" he asked, suspiciously. 

"Not poisoned, or drugged to make you tell me the secret formula," and if Mulder hadn't known better, he would say Skinner was laughing at him, "its warm milk laced with rum and honey."

"I don't have any rum," Mulder pointed out and sipped obediently; it seemed easier that way. 

"What do you think I carry in my raincoat pocket?" Skinner asked mildly. "Apart from my thirty eight and my badge?"

"You go around with a hip flask prepared to give your agents hot toddies? Now, that's weird," Mulder said. It actually tasted rather good, maybe a bit too sweet but warming. 

"Only the agents who need it," Skinner replied equably. "And you do." He resumed his seat on the coffee table and regarded Mulder closely; the blue light from the computer screen glinted on his spectacles, making him seem more inscrutable than ever. "Drink it, Mulder, drink it all and then get cleaned up and get some sleep."

"That an order?" Mulder felt a little mulish now, the weirdness of the situation giving way to irritation and some embarrassment. Skinner intimidated him sometimes, downright frightened him sometimes to be honest and this was so out of character, for both of them, Mulder was unprepared to deal with it. 

"Do I have to make it an order?" there was that teasing tone again and very faintly, the beginnings of a smile. This is really getting weird, Mulder told himself, sipping some more of the sweet, thick liquid. Skinner doesn't smile. Ever. Not even at Dana, and everyone smiles at Dana. That thought brought the memory and the pain back like a stab wound. 

Skinner seemed to sense the change because his expression faded and he removed his glasses carefully, setting them down and rubbing at the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. His face became still and controlled again, the face Mulder knew. "Do you blame yourself?" Skinner asked, unexpectedly, "for Samantha, I mean, being abducted instead of you?" 

Mulder plain stared at him, mouth slightly open in shock. 

"Its a common enough reaction, or so I've read. Grief. Guilt, pain, anger, resentment. All that stuff."

"You read? Read what?" Mulder replied, a little frantically. This was getting too close, too personal. 

"I got some books about abduction experiences," Skinner said, "it seemed only sensible to find out about it."

Part of Mulder was repelled by the cold efficiency of the man, and part recognised the good sense of it. "I don't blame myself," he said, perhaps a little too vehemently. 

Skinner raised an eyebrow. "And now Agent Scully too," he went on, "it would be perfectly understandable if you were to feel responsible. And angry that once again, you were left behind. Always the bridesmaid, eh Mulder, never the bride?"

This was incredible; Skinner was baiting him, taunting him with some of his most personal, private emotions. "You are out of line, sir," Mulder grated, feeling a slow burning anger fill him, felt his fists clench and his jaw tighten. 

"Yes, I am," Skinner replied promptly, "and so are you. What happened was not your fault, Mulder. Are you listening to me? Not your fault."

"I..." Mulder started, feeling overwhelmed by his response, nerves shredded by the rollercoaster of this weird situation; anger, pain, a fluttering weakness that threatened breakdown, still some residual distrust of Skinner and his motives; it all tangled and tumbled in his brain, making him feel slightly sick, slightly dizzy. "Did you put something in the milk?" he accused and flinched back from the grim, humourless spasm that crossed Skinner's face. 

"Only rum and honey, Agent Mulder. The rest you're doing to yourself, you can't blame me."

"I feel - sick," Mulder said, accusingly.

"Go ahead, it's your carpet, not mine," Skinner was brutal, amused. "You've not eaten anything all day? Maybe I did put a tad too much rum in there," it was that teasing tone back again, the one Mulder found he absolutely hated, "and that jar of honey looked way old - does honey get bad? I don't know," and with that disturbing strength, Skinner hoisted Mulder to his feet, grabbing lapels and heaving. "But you can't sit here for ever, Agent Mulder."

Mulder swayed, a little disoriented by the swiftness of Skinner's actions. He steadied himself, catching hold of Skinner's hands automatically, blinking to try and clear his head. The sickness faded, just a little, leaving a weak, wretched trembling behind. "She was - is, is, the only one I trusted... trust," he started to say, then ran out of words. Skinner wouldn't understand, no one would understand. Maybe even he didn't understand. "I'm just so tired," he said, trying to explain. 

"I know," the reply was gentle, almost compassionate, and filled with knowledge. "I know - so tired you can't sleep, so tired you can't think straight anymore, so tired it takes everything you've got just to put one foot in front of the other, get through one more minute of it. I know," and with no embarrassment, Skinner put his arms around Mulder's shoulders and drew him close, "I know."

This was strange, it shouldn't be happening and yet it was; and the bliss of being able to rest, just for a second, while someone else bore the weight, for just that second to let someone else be in control, was almost tormentingly sweet. 

"Let it go, Agent Mulder," Skinner said, still in that sweet, gentle voice, "and that's an order from one of the few people you take orders from, just let it go." The embrace tightened, firm and inescapable; it was impersonal in a way, and Mulder felt the strength there too, that this was not open for discussion and that Skinner had no intention of listening anyway. 

It was - nice - to rest like this, to know it would not be seen as weakness. Skinner was strong, a rock to cling to, a fortress to hide behind, to forget it all just for a moment and rest his forehead on Skinner's shoulder, to be held in this overpowering but simple way, the way a father would hold his son.

"Come along Agent Mulder," Skinner said, the words were soft but a trifle impatient, "just come along with me," and he was released a little, guided towards the bedroom, Skinner's arm still secure around his shoulder, supporting him. He let himself be set down on the edge of the bed, and raised one hand to cover his eyes as the bedside lamp was switched on. 

"Headache?" Skinner asked.

"No," Mulder replied, thickly, feeling desperately ashamed of the weakness that threatened to spill the tears down his face. He never cried, hadn't cried in years. This was humiliating. "I'll be ok now, sir," he tried to recover himself, "it's kind of you to take the trouble... " and woefully, Mulder heard his own words start to crack, break under the strain of trying to keep it all inside. He stopped and took a very deep breath, his throat so tight it was an actual pain. 

"It will choke you, if you don't let it out," Skinner said, academically, "and it's not kind of me at all." The bed dipped as Skinner sat down and with that unnerving strength and competence, took hold of Mulder again, firmer than before, compelling Mulder's head to rest on his shoulder, drawing Mulder's reluctant arm around him. "We all need a little demonstration of security every now and again, Agent Mulder, even you. And after all, that is my job."

Mulder almost smiled at that - job description of the Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations: tucking up recalcitrant agents with a goodnight cuddle. "I'm not usually so - pathetic," Mulder had to defend himself, still ashamed to be like this, here, with Skinner of all people, his Boss, for God's sakes. 

"No, I know you're not. But this isn't usual. I know you and Scully are close," Skinner shifted Mulder's weight just a little, getting comfortable.

"We weren't lovers," Mulder said, sensing the implication even as he appreciated both the embrace and Skinner's tactful use of the present tense. 

"Oh, I know that too. I would never have thought you were -men and women can be friends, and it can be the best kind of friendship there is. You like Scully - so do I. And I imagine you think of Samantha as maybe being that way, if she'd grown up? Bright and clever and strong? And lovely?"

It was no good, he couldn't help himself, couldn't stop if someone pointed a gun to his head; his face was wet, the water pouring down his cheeks unheeded. It was true, all of it, every word. That - if she were still here - Samantha would have been like Scully, as good, as kind, as honest. Everything a brother could ever want his sister to be. Mulder gave a muffled sob, biting down hard on his lower lip to keep the betraying sound inside, feeling his chest expand with the pressure of suppressing it, feeling his shoulders start to heave, his stomach cramp with it. 

There was only one place to go, one place to crawl into, the dark haven of Skinner's shoulder, the warm refuge of Skinner's neck, Skinner's arms around him, stroking his back, his shoulders, one hand coming up to cradle his head nearer, stroking through his hair, warm and heavy and comforting. "There, Fox, there," it was said with a world of understanding and Mulder sobbed, once, hard and solid inside his chest, the use of his name giving him some sort of permission, no more Agent Mulder, just Fox. The sobbing grew stronger, unpractised and clumsy, dragged up from deep places inside him, the places were old pains lie. 

He cried silently, like a man who has forgotten how, the release of it, the weight of years falling away, leaving him weak and empty, only held together by the warm strong arms that held him, so close and so gentle, the arms that made him feel safe. 

He grew quiet then, feeling himself relax from almost unbearable tension towards oblivion. Skinner's hand stroked through his hair still, very softly, the caress soothing, almost hypnotic. Mulder raised his head at last, his eyes still bleary. "I'm sorry, I got your shirt all wet," he said, realising how silly that sounded as he said it. 

"I don't mind," and that was a real smile, Mulder thought, dazzled, that's what a real smile looks like on Skinner's face, that warmth, that certain understanding. It was so natural, like breathing; Mulder felt his face get hot, the handsome severe features of the other man, his hazel clear eyes, the flexible smiling mouth, all this drew him, forward, closer and closer, to brush his lips there, at the corner of Skinner's mouth, feeling his own mouth dry and rough at the touch, seeking a further touch then, moving slightly to kiss Skinner full on the mouth, a slight pout, hesitant, needing. 

The hand stroking through his hair stopped; Skinner seemed frozen in place, neither retreating nor advancing, simply -waiting. Mulder looked at him, saw the cautious surprise there in his eyes but no rejection, no disgust. No condemntation. Mulder placed his hand against the side of Skinner's face, knowing again the smooth strong softness of a man's skin. He rubbed, very gently, at the jawline, feeling the faint rasp of whiskers against his finger tips. Their eyes locked, both caught by the moment between them, the strangeness of it. 

It was too much; Mulder's fractured desire for this, his sternly denied attraction to his boss were swept away by the physical reality of actually touching him: it was juvenile to have a crush on your superior officer, quite quite juvenile -and quite quite unavoidable. Does he know, Mulder thought hazily, does he have any idea what he does to me? Why my voice is always just a little shaky when I'm talking to him? Why I can't ever quite meet his eye, and can't ever quite look anywhere else? Does he know about that time I let myself have a fantasy about him touching me? 

Mulder closed his eyes and leaned forward, pressing his lips against Skinner's mouth, harder than before, his lips open and damp against the other man, pushing at him, kissing, pleading for a response. He gave a short, muffled groan and kissed Skinner again. 

Skinner's hands moved, slowly, to Mulder's head, both hands cradling the back of his skull, drawing him near, keeping their mouths close together. He opened his mouth slightly, to allow Mulder access, tongue meeting tongue as Mulder licked forward, very sensuously, across Skinner's lower lip, stroking over and over, very slowly, deeper and deeper with each stroke. 

I'm kissing my boss, Mulder realised, dazed, thrilled and a little frightened, that strong scary man who looks so grim all the time, I'm kissing him and he's starting to kiss me; and God, but he's good at that, good at taking charge. 

Mulder snuggled closer, squirming just a little, more to feel Skinner's arms tighten around him than from any desire to be set free. Skinner was kissing him now, very deeply, a long slow exploration of tongue and lips and mouth, tasting, experimental at first, then with a certain contained arrogance. Oh, it had been so long since Mulder had admitted how much he wanted this, had denied himself the equal powerful touch of another man and now, here, like this, so vulnerable, feeling raw and exposed and battered, the strength of that needing was exquisite. Mulder felt himself falling backwards to lie on the bed, taking Skinner down with him, the weight of Skinner above him delicious and arousing. He wrapped his arms around the broad spread of Skinner's shoulders, feeling the power there, the flex of muscles and bones. 

Then there was a delicate, almost featherlight touch at his throat, where he had loosened his tie hours ago, light fingertips touching him there, then sliding round to caress his neck inside his shirt collar, feeling for the pulse then moving on to touch the bare silky skin of his earlobe. It was shattering; scarcely felt and enflaming all at once, such a simple touch to provoke such an extreme response. They were still kissing, long and deep kisses that filled Mulder with slow building fire, almost lazy with the growing desire he felt, fighting his exhaustion, hardening his body. 

"Aw," he breathed at last, as their mouths parted, "Aw please, I'm..." but there were no other words to say, Skinner's face serious and concentrated above him, looking down at him, almost evaluating, weighing consequences and actions - a slow and deliberate look that surged the colour to Mulder's face, and made his breath come short: he felt wanton, shameless and incendiary before that look, the look of a long denied man, a hungry man. A man. 

"Now's the time, Fox," the words came out very low, and Mulder could feel the vibration through his body, into his blood, kicking a heat that pooled into his stomach, higher and higher. "It can stop now," the words were stated calmly, as certain facts. "It will be as if it never happened." 

Mulder gazed at the dark eyes above him; he'd never seen eyes that were so beautiful, bright and yet so dark at the same time. "It can't stop now," Mulder corrected, daring to run his hand down Skinner's side, relishing the feel of the crisp blinding white linen shirt, curving round the hip to the swell of buttocks. "It can't," he repeated, flexing his fingers against that perfect roundness. 

He was kissed then, deeper than before, fiercely, an almost savage plundering, Skinner's lips hard against him, almost bruising in their force. Mulder moaned at the onslaught, needy, hurt little sounds escaping him, as Skinner began to undo his shirt buttons with slow determination. The glory of it, his sheer helplessness before this was unbearably arousing, the brush of steady hands against his bared chest hardening his nipples at once before the hot steady gaze as Skinner drew back a little to look at him, lying there, sprawled and dazed, breathless. Mulder struggled to sit up, to let Skinner complete his task, to shed his clothes and bare himself before that patient, heating glance.

It felt incredibly brazen, almost shameless to do this; to undo his belt and then unzip his trousers, all the time aware that Skinner was watching every single movement, waiting, watching and waiting. Mulder felt his whole body grow hot, his skin flush with a slight sheen of sweat; he wanted this like he wanted air, to be naked for this man, as naked in body as he was in mind, to bare himself totally, to feel that hot-cold shiver all over, to open himself entirely before Skinner's wise, powerful gaze. He squirmed, freeing his body from his clothes, shaking his head as Skinner motioned to help him. "I have to do this myself, I want to... let me show myself to you," he managed, having to lick his lips to get the words out. Skinner's face grew very still and concentrated and he nodded, once. 

Mulder lay back, naked, feeling his own nakedness in a unique way, Skinner fully clothed, the contrast unbearable and wildly arousing. Skinner was looking at his face, then trailed his gaze lower, over chest and abdomen and then groin. Mulder was growing hard, his cock filling with heat and blood, and he touched himself, holding his flesh, cupping it, stroking slightly. Skinner reached forward then, one warm and very steady hand coming to cover Mulder's hand, setting a slow stroking pace. It was so wonderful, and so much better than any of his fantasies - Mulder's eyes closed with the pleasure, feeling the warmth of Skinner's hand move all over him, rubbing very gently across his belly, then up to his chest, covering first one nipple then the other, making him feel warm all over, as languid as a cat being stroked. 

Skinner's warm weight settled down beside him, covering him and the shocking thrill of it, the rough caress of cloth against his own nakedness made Mulder hiss with pleasure, his teeth clenching tight at the contrast. He pushed up a little, against the weight, wanting that friction all over his skin, to rub himself against Skinner - it was a shocking, almost depraved longing; himself naked and pleading, Skinner still fully clothed, controlling and strong. So strong; as Skinner's mouth descended to his again, as he was kissed, thoroughly, with expertise and some skill, kissed so hard and so often his mouth felt sore, ravished with the touch, his lips pouting and swollen, tender and tense with the strain. He was making noises now, mewling, wanting little noises inside, small moans of appreciation, of need. 

Mulder pushed up again, flexing his hips upwards, the brush of his erect, exposed cock against the hard bulk inside Skinner's trousers almost a pain. Mulder could feel Skinner flex back, pushing down as Mulder pushed up, and felt a dark thrill of triumph at that sign of arousal, felt it again as Skinner's breath gusted into his ear: "Should I? Should I do it, Fox, should I?"

Frantic now, Mulder grabbed at Skinner's head, taking it between his hands, steadying them so they could look at each other again. Mulder couldn't say the words, words were not necessary, not when his face, his eyes all pleaded for the moment. He reached down to the front of Skinner's trousers, fumbling at the zip then tugging lower, slipping inside to feel the warm crispness of linen underwear and something warm, hard and alive inside, something that leapt to his hand, to his touch. His fingers closed around the bulk of it; thick and hard and getting harder, long and wet at the tip, the essence of masculinity, the most masculine part of this totally masculine man. Mulder's head tipped back, his mouth opening, throat wide, caught at the image of that flesh, so erect, so hot and hard and big, inside him, inside his mouth. It had been too long, much much too long since he had felt that possession; long ago and far away but the hunger rushed back at him now in one overwhelming rush. 

Loosening the constriction of clothing, freeing that growing flesh, Mulder felt all the heat and blood in his body gather in one place, getting heavier and heavier as the rest of his body grew lighter. When cock skin touched cock skin, Mulder froze, breath taken from him, unable to speak, to move, unable to do anything but feel that hot, slick touch, his own juices mingling with Skinner, his own skin stroking there, heat to heat. 

Skinner was on top of him, all over, his weight pushing Mulder down into the softness of the bed, a crushing suffocating weight that Mulder welcomed, wanted desperately, to feel covered, safe, smothered in this man's strength and flesh and heat, the illicit thrill of nakedness against clothing, the touch of cock against cock. 

Skinner's hand was at his cock again, holding him quite gently but very firmly too, just holding, his hand flexing slightly in time with Mulder's pulse, the squeeze growing tighter and tighter, just perfect, milking a little then, running up and down, from tip to shaft, hard on the shaft then relaxing then hard again, subtle touches that robbed Mulder of thought, made the breath sob in his throat, his face hot, his lungs starting to reach for air, gasping out words, groans and sighs, 'yes, oh please yes' over and over, murmurs of helpless delight, the heat beating at him in waves now, over and over, Skinner so damn strong, so determined and almost ruthless, chasing Mulder's pleasure, dragging it from him, until the moans turned to whimpers, little ragged cries of need, Mulder's muscles clenching down tight, Mulder's hand there too with Skinner, tighter, oh please god, just a little tighter, 'please' he heard himself mutter, 'alive, god I'm being burned alive,' but the words barely gusted on a final breath, as Skinner took his lips again, drawing his breath from his, stroking his climax out of him, pulling harder now than ever before, rubbing Mulder's hardness against Skinner's own hot cock, the wet blunt tip of Skinner's erection drawing Mulder's hand, their rhythms joining, pulling fire closer and closer, a crazy spiral of need, reaching deep into Mulder bones, until at that last, most impossible moment, he released himself, too tender to bear even his own touch, to reach for Skinner, to drag Skinner even closer, to place his lips to Skinner's cheek, tender despite the almost animal coupling, his eyes wide with that moment when the fire exploded, out, in gush after gush, wet, soaking pulses splattering Mulder's stomach, coating Skinner's stroking hand with unbearable silk sweet stickiness. 

Dazed, floating, a feeling beyond exhaustion, Mulder lay and watched darkness fill his own eyesight. He had never felt so drained, so purged of everything; thought, memory, all burned away by such a simple, complicated thing. 

Skinner was still beside him, warm and heavy and very real, the first reality he noticed as climax faded from his mind. It was suddenly imperative to know, to look: Mulder opened his eyes and saw Skinner's face, relaxed and open and blank, the eyes closed, an expression of almost clinical purity on those handsome, stern features. He's beautiful like this, Mulder realised, with total truth. Men aren't beautiful, but like this, here, he is nothing but. Skinner's eyes flickered open, as if he could sense Mulder watching him - perhaps he can, Mulder thought, rather scared but still rather excited at that. 

Driven by that fear, that excitement, Mulder leaned towards him and kissed him, a wet, tired satisfied kiss. Skinner's mouth welcomed him, warm and very dark and wet, a soothing, overpoweringly gentle possession. Mulder sighed into Skinner's open mouth, ah, let this not end, let this go on forever, forever. 

Their mouths drifted apart and Mulder lay back, feeling his face reflect his pleasure, weak, spent and relaxed. He wanted to speak, to say something but nothing fitted, nothing was quite right. 

"Do I," and it was Skinner, finding the words, taking control here but with great kindness, "do I say I'm sorry? Or ask you if you are?"

"I'm not," Mulder managed, eyes still closed, body still stunned by the release of his climax, "You should know - I've thought about you this way, often," he added, honestly, "I find your - strength - very arousing."

That was received in silence, but Skinner's hand came to his cheek, cupping the side of his face, a surprising cherishing gesture. Mulder opened his eyes then, to see Skinner leaning above him, propped up on one elbow, regarding him with an unfathomable expression. "I know," Skinner replied, easily. "I've always known. That's part of my job too, to know things like that," and there was nothing to cause it, but Mulder felt cold, all at once. Perhaps Skinner noticed the change; he kissed Mulder, very sweetly, very soft and gentle; a goodbye kiss? Mulder wondered, feeling the inevitable parting. 

Skinner drew back: "Get some sleep Agent Mulder, I'll expect you at your desk by eight tomorrow. There's work to do." The voice of the controller again; not a smile, not even a look to betray what had happened between them. Skinner got up, rearranging his clothing with remarkable grace, not clumsy as most men are in such situations. He turned then and regarded Mulder, lying there, semen slick, still heavy eyed from the climax, mouth still swollen from their kisses, cheeks blushed from contact with Skinner's stubble. Mulder returned the look, refusing to feel embarrassed; Skinner was a soldier, he had travelled far and fought battles Mulder could only guess at. That one man could want another man would not shock him. 

"Try not to worry too much, Fox," Skinner said, Mulder's gaze flying to his face at the use of that name, "I can tell you from long experience, the lost ones usually come back to us, sooner or later." Skinner moved, sure and swift, and snapped off the lamp. Mulder's eyes stared into the sudden darkness, and as suddenly he felt the soft, warm brush of lips against his forehead. "Get some sleep Agent Mulder," and Mulder lay back, and listened to the silence of Skinner leaving - not a stumble or a sound: a man who can see in the dark, Mulder thought, a man who can see in the dark. 

5320 words  
GL: 14/15 January 1996

Gloria Lancaster -   
Two out of three people wonder where the other one has gone.


End file.
